


Darken My Door Once More

by bloodscout



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Hotels, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: It is as if a femme fatale has stepped out of a classic Noir film and into the lobby of this small-town hotel. She could not look more out of place amongst the garish, bowling-alley-carpet decor of the budget hotel. Maybe the woman in front of her is some kind of spirit, an otherworldly omen of things to come; or perhaps Helen is just very, very gay
Relationships: Manuela Dominguez/Helen | The Distortion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 8
Collections: TMA Girls Week





	Darken My Door Once More

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of TMA Girls Week : Pick an AU! 
> 
> This AU and this pairing have been kicking around my head for ages, so I'm keen to finally get it onto paper! It's all plotted but not all written. Planning to update weekly, but we'll see.

T]]he woman who walks through the entrance of La Mentira is breathtaking — there isn’t any other word for her. It is as if a femme fatale has stepped out of a classic Noir film and into the lobby of this small-town hotel. She is dressed head to toe in black, a perfect match for the raven hue of her hair, yet she somehow seems to sparkle. She could not look more out of place amongst the garish, bowling-alley-carpet decor of the budget hotel. Maybe the woman in front of her is some kind of spirit, an otherworldly omen of things to come; or perhaps Helen is just very, very gay.

“Good evening,” she greets. “Welcome to La Mentira.”

For a moment, the woman doesn’t speak, her lower lip held between her teeth. Her skin is bronzed, but Helen thinks she can see a not of pink rising on her cheekbones. She allows herself to preen at the thought that the woman might be blushing at her.

“Are you checking in?” Helen prompts. She is _certain_ that she’s never seen this woman before. She would have remembered.

The woman smiles, teeth stark white against her black lipstick. The contrast should be intimidating, but Helen finds it anything but. Helen knows that she also cuts an imposing figure — false stiletto nails, a carefully coiffed afro adding to her already towering height, and a work uniform with shoulder pads right out of the 1980’s — but her aesthetic appealed a specific subset of people. A specific subset of women, which, guessing by the neat undercut and tailored suit, this woman fell into.

“Yes, thank you,” Her eyes flick down at the shiny gold name tag pinned to Helen’s blazer. “ Helen. One room for Dominguez, I believe.”

Helen opens the bookings ledger with more haste than was strictly necessary, just so she might have a first name to put to the face on the other side of the reception desk. Her voice is divine, husky in the way that makes Helen weak at the knees. And she addressed Helen by name! Even though her name was clearly on display, customers usually only used her name when they wanted to complain about something. Helen runs a finger down the page until she finds the listing, in Nikola’s slanted, loopy handwriting. Yes, there it is. Standard double, four nights. Booking for one, Helen decidedly did _not_ notice.

“Manuela?” The woman — _Manuela_ — nods. “Here’s your key. Breakfast is 6 to 10, check out is at 10:30.”

The hands that take the key from Helen are delicate, nails short but even, and painted with a matte black polish. Their fingers brush momentarily, and it is only Helen’s undying professionalism that keeps her smile fixed on her face.

“Thank you, Helen. Is your kitchen open?” Manuela asks. “I’ve not had time to eat tonight.”

Helen checks her watch — she has never been good at keeping track of time, something which her mostly nocturnal lifestyle does not particularly assist with. It’s well past 11pm, slowly creeping towards midnight, and Jane clocks out at 9:30 sharp. A longstanding date with her worm farm, no doubt.

“My apologies, our chef has finished for the evening. However, we do have a range of meals available at this time of night, if you’d like something simple?”

This was, technically speaking, true. Helen was trained in basic kitchen tasks. She could put together a sandwich, make a halfway-decent soup, maybe cook some pasta if there was any fresh. She rarely had to, though. When they requested room service, the guests of La Mentira mostly requested wine, beer, or crisps. She wouldn’t have even mentioned their late-night menu if it was someone else asking.

Manuela nods. “I’m sure it will be more than adequate.”

“Wonderful! I can bring it up to your room, unless,” Helen indicates the way to the bistro. “You’d rather take a seat downstairs?”

A perfectly normal question, had there been even the memory of daylight around. As it was, it was incredibly foolish for Helen to think that this woman wanted to do anything other than eat whatever half-decent sandwich Helen could assemble and go right to sleep.

Manuela’s tongue swipes across her lower lip, and the corner of her mouth lifts slightly. “I would request a moment of company if I did.” She looks around the lobby, a little theatrical. They are the only two there, the stillness almost unsettling.“If you aren’t too busy. It’s always a shame to eat alone.”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_! Is Manuela flirting? She has to be flirting, right? Helen didn’t leave the house looking like a time traveller from the 1980’s for women to think she was straight.

“I’m still on the clock,” Helen says, though whether it is a reminder to herself or to Manuela, she can’t tell. “But I can work from behind the bar for a little while.”

Manuela smiles, and makes her way to the bistro that branches off the lobby. She walks with purpose, not checking to see if Helen is following behind her. There is a confidence to her gait, as if she knows he is worth time and attention. Helen always made her opinions about people quickly, easily fascinated by first impressions, but this was just ridiculous. She was salivating over the way this stranger walked, as if it held something deeper about her personality. Melanie was right — she really did let her imagination run away with her on night shift.

Manuela chooses a sandwich from the paired back menu, and Helen ducks into the kitchen to put it together as Manuela settles herself at the bar. The kitchen is covered with Jane's little post-its, doodles and words of encouragement. A fluorescent green bug tells Helen “You’re delicious!”. She hopes it knows what it’s talking about. Whether it is addressing the food or Helen herself doesn’t particularly matter.

The sandwich in front of her is disappointing. It probably tastes fine — there are not too many ways to fuck up a sandwich — but it looks sad. Unfortunately, by merit of being difficult to ruin, a sandwich is also difficult to make look appealing. Helen spends a few moments shuffling the two halves around, trying to stand one half up against the other like they sometimes do in Facebook cooking videos. She gives it a critical eye, before throwing a handful of watercress over it in what she hopes is an artful array of greenery. Still unsatisfied, she finally decides to stab several club frill toothpicks into the bread. The multicoloured cellophane brightens things up, she thinks.

At her seat on the bar, Manuela is tapping away on a sleek phone, but when she hears Helen walk through the kitchen doors, she slips it away.

“Here we go,” Helen proffers her creation. “Now, can I get you a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She takes a moment to browse the drinks menu that Helen hands her. “Uh, a glass of the Pinot Noir, if I could.”

Helen is quietly impressed. She doesn’t have the greatest palate for wine herself, but she has spent enough time behind a bar to tell when someone knows what they’re talking about when it comes to wine. La Mentira is well-stocked, but Helen rarely ever opens anything other than the second-least expensive bottle. Manuela’s selection sits evenly in the middle range, so she isn’t trying to show off her affluence. When she takes a drink, her motions are subtle, just for her own enjoyment, rather than to impress somebody else.

Manuela’s eyes flutter closed as the wine hits her tongue and she lets out a pleased exhale.

“Good?” Helen asks, her throat suddenly very dry.

Manuela hums in response. “I was raised Catholic.” she says by way of explanation. “Red wine’s in the blood.”

“Never had the taste for it.” Helen confesses. “Too serious for me.”

Manuela takes a thoughtful bite of her sandwich. “Obviously you’ve never seen me after a glass too many.”

Helen rests her forearms on the bench, the picture of the casual bartender. “Messy drunk?” she teases.

Her mouth occupied with bread, Manuela just hums an agreement. She swallows, and when she wipes a crumb away with her serviette, it leaves a slight imprint of her lipstick. “I tend to… proselytise.” Helen’s confusion must be obvious, because Manuela continues. “Not about religion. Although when I was younger… Now, it’s mostly about work. Or, my vocation, rather. When I get started on something I’m passionate about, it’s hard to stop me talking.” Her eyes stop roaming the room, focusing instead on her food. “Like now, I guess.”

“Hey, now. I asked.” Helen reassures her. She’s more than interested in whatever gets Manuela’s eyes to shine like they just did.

Manuela shakes her head, though, changing the subject. “Regardless. What do you do?” Manuela asks, before realising what she’s said and breaking out into giggles. She laughs light and high, incongruous with the timbre of her speaking voice.

Now it was Helen’s turn to reign in her impassioned ramblings. “I mean, I work here, obviously, but I’m also an artist. Penniless bohemian by day, slightly less penniless hotel receptionist by night.”

“What kind of art do you make?” Manuela asks, seeming genuinely interested.

The dreaded question. Helen always found it hard it describe the kind of art she made. It always sounded pretentious, or trite, or simply weird. “Uh, a bit of everything.” She settles on. “Some performance work, but it’s harder to get grants for that. Oils, collage. Anything that says what I need it to.”

“And what do you need it to say?”

Christ alive, Manuela really wasn’t pulling her punches with these questions. Helen had to think for a moment, corral her artistic process into something she could verbalise in under a minute. She drummed her nails on the counter top, the only sound other than Manuela’s quiet chewing, yet the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Helen felt like Manuela was actually interested in her answer, rather than just being polite.

“I make art about change,” Helen decides on. “Change you can’t control. The way that life sometimes seems to move around you rather than you moving through it. Like a labyrinth.” She holds her breath momentarily, unsure how Manuela will react. It seems important, in the moment, that Manuela approve of her work.

“Do you make anything like those magic eye paintings? With the fractals?” Manuela teases. She has finished her sandwich, the toothpicks sitting in a neat line in the middle of the plate.

Helen laughs, feeling giddy. “An inspiration, maybe.”

There is a lull as Manuela sips at her wine, still savouring the taste.

“Can you drink on the job?” she asks eventually.

Helen can’t stop looking at the delicate motion of her wrist as she swirls her drink, but she manages a coherent response. “My boss doesn’t keep a super close eye on the night shift, but she knows how much liquor we have. And sorry to say it after you’ve bought a drink already,” She risks leaning towards Manuela a little bit, whispering conspiratorially, “but they’re a little overpriced.”

Manuela chuckles, and her tongue peeps out to catch the drop of wine threatening to roll over her lip. Helen’s mind turns momentarily to static as she tries to process the action.

“But if I were to, say, buy another drink and just forget to drink it, that would be above board?” she suggests, voice pitched low.

Helen grins, her cheeks almost aching with how wide it is. “I think that could work.”

Manuela matches her expression. “What should I order then? Not wine, I’m guessing.”

“I would suggest,” She draws out the syllables, having a little too much fun with the pretence. “An espresso martini, the only drink suitable for a bartender on the graveyard shift.”

After Manuela’s nod of approval, Helen sets to making the cocktail, throwing a garish cocktail umbrella on top. She takes a sip, appreciating the quality liquor she would balk at buying for her home collection.

“Do you have to stay behind the bar?” Manuela asks. She doesn’t look at Helen when she asks, the only sign she might be feeling something close to Helen’s vibrant nervousness. “There’s a perfectly good seat next to me.”

Helen tilts her head, as if she’s trying to decide if she wants to sit next to the unfairly gorgeous woman who waltzed into her hotel. She slinks around the bar, or as much as she can slink, being 6’8” in heels.

“This is the first good conversation I’ve had all evening.” she sighs, settling into the barstool next to Manuela. If she leaned to the side just a little, their knees would brush.

“Oh?” Manuela prompts.

Worried that she’s being too forward, Helen opts not to compliment Manuela further. “There’s some important conference this week, so we’ve had nothing but old, dusty science men since yesterday. And I can’t stand science types, honestly. Real downers.” She pouts in a way that she hopes is comical.

Manuela inspects the last drops of wine in her glass. “You don’t appreciate science?”

Helen considers for a moment. “More that I don’t understand it, and I’m glad I don’t. I don’t understand the drive to rationalise things, to break everything down until it makes sense. The world isn’t meant to make sense, and I think that’s what’s wonderful about it. When things are ordered, studied… they aren’t as beautiful.”

“I disagree.”

Helen’s heart promptly jumps into her throat. She wishes one of her co-workers was here to kick her. Or Melanie, who has been boasting about her killer right hook. Just knock her right onto the floor, Total K.O. like a Tekken character.

“I need to sleep.” Manuela declares, standing. Her dark eyes are cold, not of the sparkle from earlier. “I should be rested for my presentation tomorrow. Please charge the food and drinks to the room.”

Helen stands, her customer service instincts taking over as her body goes into emotional shutdown. “Of course. I hope you have a nice stay,” She swallows. “Ms. Dominguez.”

Manuela nods, staring right through Helen, and turns to leave. When her hand lands on the handle of her suitcase, she pauses. Helen can see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes. Standing at the doors of the bistro, Manuela spins on her heel. The full weight of her gaze envelopes Helen, freezing her in place. Her lips are pressed tightly together, and Helen is instantly reminded of her explorations with charcoal, the sharp, dark lines when she dashed the stick across textured paper.

“The world is no less beautiful because we understand it. We are learning new things every day thanks to science, new wonders we could never imagine. _That_ is beautiful, to me.”

Then, she leaves.

“Fuck.” Helen whispers to the empty room, and rests her head on the sticky veneer of the bar. That could have gone better. That could have gone quite a lot better.

**Author's Note:**

> pls come yell at me about helenuela on tumblr at [sansculotted](sansculotted.tumblr.com)


End file.
